


Bad Timing

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon, Gap Filler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-18
Updated: 2007-06-18
Packaged: 2018-12-27 14:31:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12083037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Gapfiller for 4.14 - After Liberty Ride, Brian has some decisions to make. So does Justin.





	Bad Timing

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

_"After four to seven days the initial strong and stinging pain is over, which is, among others, even strengthened by a spasmodic tension of the back. This happens in connection with the creation of the fibrocartilage callus around the fracture."_ _  
_  
Great. Still four to seven days without real sex. I mean, the kind of sex we both like. Hard and fast. Brian's absolutely incapable of propping himself on his arm without falling into agony. Bloody clavicle.  
  
On the other hand... it hasn't always to be the "usual" sex I think, lifting myself from the computer stool. There's sex in the shower, sex on the chair; I can ride him or, for a change, I could do him... um, the half of a year's already gone? I don't think so.  
  
"After two to three months the clavicle begins to strengthen back to normal, to gain its former full strength after half a year."  
  
And all this after this trip of horror playing in his mind, keeping us off for too long to be happy again.   
  
Oops. Did I say "happy"? Is this beautiful animal named Brian Kinney able to be happy? I believe, he can. He just doesn't know it.  
  
I peer over the computer monitor and see him lying on the futon, his face relaxed. His eyes behind the lids moving fast as being in REM-Phase and he seems to dream. His hands clenching to fists. Even in his sleep he can't let loose. But then, a smile scurries over his face.   
  
How can I ever tell him that I love his smile when it's open and without cynicism and mockery? I see it rarely, but if I do, it's only for me. And for Gus.  
  
Who's ever claimed Brian wouldn't do romance? When he's going home hand in hand with me, throwing me upon the bed instead on the hard kitchen table? (Even if he will deny it under torture – cuddling is better in bed than on the table, right?) When he leans his forehead against mine and admit his weakness? When Babylon's music is playing only for us and he's presenting to the world how much he likes me? Even the hustler he hired me for my birthday was romantic because, for Brian, there's nothing better in the whole world than good sex. And this present said more than any word he could say. Even if this is playing only in his exclusive Brian-Kinney-universe no one else has entrance to. Sometimes not even me.   
  
"Ow." Brian's shout of pain scares me from my thoughts. Shit, not one of his nightmares again.  
  
"You ok?" I ask, already on my way to the futon Brian's lying on with pain ridden face, touching his left upper arm. Over his black, woolen jacket are taped elastic bandages, protecting his back and shoulder. I place myself next to him, facing him. He even can't dress or undress himself, but I warn myself not to let out a single word about that. Brian hates to be dependent. He's already thrown me out of the loft and out of his life just because I wanted to help him.  
  
I watch his long lashes.   
  
I could have killed him instantly when he was wobbling on his damn bicycle so desperately and at the ends of his strength over the finishing line of the Liberty Ride. To do something shitty like this after a cancer disease is bordering madness. Well, Brian Kinney is the master of the well-controlled madness. Everything has its special place in the loft – even me.  
  
"Yeah, I'll be alright," he says with his gentle voice that sometimes takes my sanity away. Fight is useless.  
  
"I heard it from the best authority."

Huh? Probably still one of his nightmares. His face lies in semidarkness and his hair falls over his forehead, but he tries to smile and that's a lot. With Brian, you never know which fly on the wall has annoyed him. Yesterday evening I convinced myself that Brian had only reached the finishing line because he saw me standing there. Waiting for him. The velvet darkness. The snowfall, suffocating all noise except his panting, that was blowing over to me. The blue blinking of his warning light on his bike, the low squeaking of the pedals and Ben's craven cheering I had to join after Debbie had repressed me from running to him, hugging him and never letting him go again.  
  
But I have to let him go to keep him.  
  
"Did you fuck Tom Cruise?"  
  
There you are, we are back to Brian's essential things in life.  
  
"Everybody knows, he's not gay," I answer automatically.  
  
"Adrian Brody?"  
  
"Niiiice, but no."  
  
"Tobey Maguire?"  
  
"Pleeease."  
  
"What?"  
  
Brian is so up the pole. Why does he always have to conclude from himself to others? Why does he think I had half of Hollywood in my bed? Does he think me so irresistible? Maybe so. My heart jumps for a moment. I bend over him and whisper into his ear: "Connor James."  
  
"No shit!"  
  
I love his husky laughter.   
  
"Sounds like you had a most excellent adventure."  
  
I cannot do anything but laugh with him. "Sounds like you did too."  
  
Abruptly he's serious again. His eyes are fathomless in the pale, orange light.   
  
I make a vow to myself not to let him off before I figure out what real colour his eyes are. It oscillates from light to light and mood to mood. Now he's having his dark phase. Dark and deep like a moor.   
  
Taylor? I try to fix up myself. You're not gonna get this little-boy's-fancy again?  
  
"Cycling down life's endless highways I had time to think," he says.  
  
My heart is beating in my throat. "About?"  
  
He's speaking slow and accentuated as if he has to explain it to a child. "About what I'd do differently if I survived cancer... AND sleeping in a tent."  
  
I suppress the impulse to grin. He can never be serious.  
  
"Equally unpleasant, I agree. But now that you have, what did you decide?"   
  
"The first thing I'd do differently?" He's pointing over his head in the direction of the bedroom. "Is the bedroom. Get rid of that thing over the bed."   
  
Now I not only suppress my grin but my disappointment too. Brian's never going to change. "Yeah, it's very nineties, I agree."  
  
The magic is broken and I hoist myself from the mattress. Was this all that had come from his musings? The bed? Brian's biggest treasure? At least he hadn't locked himself up in his cave but is lying on the floor on one of his posh futons to be close to me. At least I can talk myself into this.  
  
Watched from the bar stool this cognition seems to be absurd, but there has to be a reason for his action. Brian Kinney does nothing without a reason. And he's never going to make it easy for me to understand it, albeit I would claim - even by a threat of dead sentence – that I can see through him like through glass.   
  
Liar.   
  
Brian weaves his net like a spider in darkness. And if I would try to help him up from the futon now he would snap at me like the dog for a bone for sure. It takes a while before his long body has struggled in slow motion to his feet and it hurts me as it hurts him.  
  
"And then, I'd like to spend more time with my son. He's at an age now when he needs a strong, masculine influence."   
  
My itching to help him up is strong, but I have to restrain myself.   
  
"Especially being raised by a couple of dykes. He's got to know about Armani, Gucci, Prada, not just football and engine tuning."  
  
Shit. 'The strong, masculine influence'? Weren't these his words when we had been together under the shower for the first time? When he thought me a little boy he had deflowered and after all this his prophecy had come true that he would be always with me, no matter how many guys I would fuck after him?   
  
And does this mean, now he thinks me adult and equal?   
  
Rather he doesn't, because now he puts on this aloof grin that takes back his serious words and nobody knows exactly if he's joking, or not. To be honest, neither do I. At least he can open his can of beer by himself and I'm leafing disinterestedly through a magazine lying on the desk. Brian's always in need of reading material. That's one of the things I like about him. That's one of the MANY things I like about him – if I'm not gonna send him to hell, like now.   
  
"Unquestionably. Any other decisions?" I ask testily and half heartedly expect, that he wants to travel to Milan next year to inspect Bugatti's Spring collection.  
  
"I want you to move back in."   
  
  
                                                 * * *  
  
  
His facial expression is worth a photo. Yes, I could nail it to the wall next to the drawing he once made of me and that had been so good that I had to buy it. My own, private jerk-off-file.   
  
Justin's still looking as if piglets would start raining down from the ceiling. Okay, I'm gonna say this just one more time before my guts leave me and to make him see how serious I am about it.   
  
"I said I'd like it if you and I were to live together." Aww, this came out not the way I had planned. I didn't want to be THAT explicit. And my punishment comes promptly.  
  
"Are you proposing?"  
  
"Of course not. With the sudden and unexpected plethora of gay marriages, I'd hate to add to the glut." Jesus fucking Christ. Why's he pissing me off so easily sometimes?   
  
Justin hears my sharp tone and slaps his hand in front of his face. Good. Shame on you, Justin. He looks shocked though. Is it really that unbelievable if I have a plea? I mean, I never ask for too much, do I? I never demanded he move in with me before, yet alone, asked him to do so.  
  
Slowly his face turns from shock to furtively joy.  
  
"All this running back and forth between here and Daphne's is time-consuming, and inconvenient. I mean, just last week you forgot a pair of socks and had to borrow mine."   
  
Now, that has given him the rest. Was it meant seriously or not? Why on earth I have to make a joke of everything, while I'm actually dead serious? Didn't we always do fine together? He's neat and clean, he never makes a mess (except at his next Jambalaya cooking sessions), he doesn't cock up my hardwood floor, he closes the tube of toothpaste and even the toilet lid.   
  
Paralyzed for a moment, I think, Kinney, you never wanted a pet, did you. So, stop thinking of Justin as a Persian cat. This game here is serious.   
  
We've always worked together just fine. Sometime we even harmonized. For laughably short moments I looked forward coming home because he would be there. Sometimes he cooked and I even ate it. After seven o'clock.  
  
His sneakers stood next to my Prada-loafers, his underwear always mingled with mine and I always had a battery of his favourite soap in stock. Olive oil with pomegranate. He's really a spoilt brat. We've almost been like an old marriage coup...   
  
No, of course we have NOT been an old marriage ... thingies. Whenever he was getting on my nerves there was always Babylon's dark room. As if we haven't tried out ourselves each crook and cranny and it was leaving behind a cozy feeling of famil... boredom?   
  
Justin now looks like as if he's feeling sick. I never thought that my suggestion could have such an impact. Maybe he compares me secretly with this Ian. Well, the thought of roses and rings makes ME sick.   
  
I lean over the counter and look straight and seriously into his eyes. "And as for the times when you're not around, I wouldn't particularly mind it if you were."   
  
Briefly he beams at me with this disbelieving smile and still doesn't grasp that I'm as grave as I can be.  
  
"I've been waiting for you to ask me that since the first night you brought me here."  
  
Shit, did I really never ask his this question? Probably I haven't. Kinney, you're such a fool. And yet he was living here practically for ages and you never noticed. Okay, there was a time when he was supposed to sleep on the sofa (but never had), and there was a time when I was throwing his bloody underwear into his face. When I was throwing him out together with his sneakers, his soap and his Moby-CD. Did I really miss him that much that I had to pick him up myself from the noble New York hotel room and to buy him a first class ticket back to Pittsburgh because five guys didn't fit into the fucking Jeep? Did I throw him out a second time when I didn't need a Nanny to wipe away my barf from the bathroom and to push a thermometer into my ass because I was even too weak to open the bloody loft door?   
  
Kinney, you're thinking too much. Always been your blemish. You're never gonna get rid of Justin. Never ever.   
  
"Well, then what do you say? Should I make room in my drawers for your drawers?"  
  
I pass him and ruffle his hair. It's his decision and he doesn't have to answer me here and now. Inwardly though I listen to each sound coming from him, but the only thing I hear is a weak sigh. He's still sitting at the kitchen bar and rummaging through his hair while I sit down on the stairs leading to the bedroom and wait.  
  
How long is it, since he cooked chicken soup for me after Deb's recipe? When I had been too weak to kick him out because there was no way he should see my frailness? My barfing attacks, my uncontrollable trembling with coldness while inside I was burning? Burning to a crisp from the fucking radiation. Who wants to see his partner this way?   
  
I snort. Justin wanted me to see this way. There was never a single jerk of disgust. He seems to have a masochistic tendency... funny I realize only now. But we can't try out, because my shoulder is almost unmovable and I absolutely don't fancy to pump my stomach with pain killers with a nice greeting to the kidneys. I'm fed up with docs and hospitals, with injections and clysters, pubic hair shaves and anesthetics. Not to mention the antiseptic stench that will always be hanging in my nostrils from now on.  
  
Justin never asked about all these things and yet I'm sure he knows all about it. It simply didn't bother him. He wanted to heal me like a magical medicine man and he succeeded.   
  
He's still sitting there, brooding, as if I wasn't here. Did I scare him that much with my proposition? Since when is Justin Taylor afraid of something? He's always been my brave boy. He even dared to inflict me this tea that smelled like Yak shit and tasted likewise. I never told him the real reason for the "lifting of the Titanic". He may believe in the power of Chinese herbs – that's just a venial sin. My real sin was punished in hospital. The whole bullshit I discharged year after year only to be free.   
  
Free from Jack. Free from Joan. Free from Claire and those little shits she calls her sons.   
  
My sublimation happened with Justin's acceptance. He pushed me to the floor, shouted, what a pathetic motherfucking piece of shit I was for shutting him out and trying to be a hero all on my own. Sure. Brian Kinney's invincible. He's amoral, he's got only feelings that are to be satisfied by a blow job, he's untouchable like Godfather. And then he had fed me. With this fucking chicken soup.  
  
A burst of laughter is creeping up. And what Mikey did when he was showing up here? He wanted to cook chicken soup and forgot to bring the chicken. Did I ever have more than the essentials in my fridge as beer and poppers? You know me bad, Mikey. After all these years.   
  
At least I could rely on Theodore, as always. And on Cynthia. Considering how many times I had saved Ted's ass, it was only just and equitable. No. I never count up. Either I do something for someone or I don't. The thank you afterwards – forget it. The brain has always ruled my heart.   
  
But now... Justin's finished with pondering.  
  
  
                                                    * * *

  
Somehow, my brain is dried out. I swing around and see him sitting on the stairs leading to the bedroom. The back straightened up because of his shoulder and a strained expression in his eyes. He's staring at me. My first impulse had been to jump to the ceiling for joy, but Brian doesn't like big emotional scenes. Shit, why do I always have to be considerate of HIM? If I want to jump for joy around the loft it's my business, isn't it? But, it's just as well. If I watch it closely, he's not only inviting me to move back into the loft, but to live with him. To share his life. To give me more than sex. Why am I just so damn unsure about his true intentions?   
  
I feel magically drawn by his eyes. I have to go to him and sit by his side. All this is just a classic type of bad timing.  
  
"You want me to move back in? Why?"  
  
I rather sense his sigh than that I hear it. "I thought I had mentioned already that it's more convenient for you."  
  
Convenient. Aha. "And what about your convenience? Or do you think it more convenient to have me ready to fuck instead of go hunting?" Fuck me. That just slipped out of me. His eyes are almost black. But he can restrain himself.  
  
"You can take that as you like."   
  
Damn it, Brian! Tell me now what you feel! I'm so sick of this constant insecurity.  
  
"I just thought, after you were back from ... Ian, you had accepted the rules. You knew what awaits you and you played the game. You knew where you belong, and you knew that I would never lie to you." His lips twist and I know what he is thinking. Of course he never hesitated with his tricks, but there are other kind of lies.  
  
"Brian," I start softly. "I know the rules. I only thought you finally would change them."  
  
He interrupts me. "You mean, to ask you to live with me wasn't a change of rules?"  
  
He gets up and walks towards the bathroom. Shit, why can't I never say what I mean? I run after him and find him in front of the mirror, tugging at his bandages.  
  
"Let me do it."  
  
He glares at me, but gives in. I can sense his disappointment physically, but first I have to help him getting rid of his clothes. While I roll the bandages he unbuttons his jacket with one hand and drops it down. I help him off with his trousers. I know, he doesn't want me to play Nanny, but he has to come to terms with it. I forced him before to accept my help. I strip off his slip too. It's not that grey something anymore, he had to wear for such a long time. His scar has healed and left nothing but a narrow, pink stripe, which isn't to be seen in the darkness of Babylon. Good for him. He can go on finally as he did before.  
  
My hands stroke his skin. He lifts his head and closes his eyes.  
  
"I have an offer from Hollywood."  
  
"Hollywood?"  
  
It's this kind of scared cry when I told him that my SAT-results had been good enough to apply to a university outside Pennsylvania that gave his feelings away. Now and then. I take his hand, pull him into the bedroom and push him gently upon the bed, meticulously aware of his sore shoulder. In a huff I shed my garment and lie naked beside him, my fingers raking through his hair. I love its length.  
  
"Brett Keller offered me a job as assistant while he was filming "Rage". I can do the story board."  
  
His kind of silence tells me that he's in shock. And obviously embarrassed that he played the fool again. Also this is a kind of bad timing. Whenever he's wearing his heart on his tongue it's powerfully shoved back into his throat. And this time it's me.  
  
"Hey." I slide closer and suck in his scent of sandalwood. Sandalwood, vanilla and a weak scent of cigarettes. A wicked combination. "I didn't decide yet."   
  
Liar.  
  
You have given your word to Brett Keller to return and work with him. But could I foretell that Brian would make a love declaration? A love declaration of the special Brian-Kinney-kind? So, I'm excused. Brett knows Brian and would understand.  
  
He's still silent. It's still and warm in the loft. His lips taste like lemon bars I had brought from the Diner, and bitter from beer, when I cautiously glide over him. I don't think he could ever resist me. And the same goes for me. My tongue draws a line from his chin to his ear. "If you want, I'm staying", I whisper and sense his cock jerking between my legs. I believe our voices have always been an indicator for our excitement.  
  
Brian relaxes. His eyes are closed and his mouth half-open. What if I would take the opportunity and take what I want? Brian knows that I only bottom for him. When I see him, I want to lie down.  
  
His lashes cast long shadows on his skin. I want to blow them away and make a wish. I bend my head and search for his lips. A soft licking first, then, searching for the inside, I find his tongue and battle with it. Brian's body's shivering and not long after that one of these deep sighs is singing into my ear, and that's always driving me round the bend.  
  
My buttocks are moving over his cock and I glide down, spreading kisses upon his skin while Brian has already drifted off into his own world. The long monster, lying over his abdomen waits to be taken into my mouth. I catch the clear drops with my tongue, circle the glans and nibble at the underside around the rim. When his hand digs into my hair, I know, he wants more.  
  
Brian was always right. I love cock. I love them down my throat, I love to ride them and when he's finished, I love falling asleep with it deep inside me. There's nothing wrong with that. I slide around and my tongue is driving widely up from down while my hand massages his testicles. I never consciously matched the today with yesterday. There wasn't a difference to feel. And if Brian has managed to get it off his head, I don't have to start to worry. Brian is Brian. He's not perfect, but for me, he is. And anyway - perfection is boring.  
  
The only thing perfect is the long monster that's growing larger before my eyes and wants to be swallowed. I grin. Brian is breathing fast and his skin shines bronze in the orange light. Too bad I can't paint him on occasions like this. But I'm too busy for the moment. When his cock strokes my gums and my teeth softly graze his skin, he's tugging harder at my hair and his sounds are even deeper than ever. I guess, I have to stop thinking now.   
  
  
Funny, that memory only sets in when I have his bitter-sweet taste in my mouth. Brian says, that you can identify the men by the taste of their sperm. Sure, Brian. You're the biggest cock-sucker in the world. Which reminds me: If Brian one day would give me a blow job in front of every eye at Babylon that would be the biggest love declaration ever.  
  
He's lying soft as a down feather upon the blue sheets and is breathing heavily through his mouth. I never want to let go of him, turn his head to me and press my lip on his. I feel him smiling.  
  
"I taste good."  
  
Sure you do, you son of a bitch.  
  
  
                                                                      * * *  
  
  
Justin's sperm cools down on my upper thigh and I feel the wetness on the bed sheets. It's reminding me why I dislike taking guys home. Too much dirt. But Justin's allowed. Sex is dirty. And as if he guessed my musing, he plucks a tissue from the dispenser and cleans me up. After he sucked every damn drop out of me.   
  
Justin's the best I ever had. No wonder, he learned from the master.  
  
He's lying next to me, one arm possessively wrapped around me and one leg between mine. If I wouldn't be so fucking scared I could sleep now, but Justin's going to Hollywood instead of staying here with me. How often do I have to lose him before I can tell him about my feelings? Fuck it, Kinney. What's so hard to tell about one fucking sentence?   
  
I watch his long lashes. The soft, cream coloured skin, contrasting to my own. Actually we both make a nice couple, don't we?   
  
Why's he so silent? Wait, Kinney. He's asked you a question before he gave you the blow job of your life - again. 'If you want to, I'm staying.'  
  
Justin, you have no idea how much I want to. Has anybody of my so-called friends ever taken such good care of me as you do? If I say I'm fine, everyone's accepting it, without looking behind my facade.   
  
My thoughts are spinning off. Justin sleeps at my side and I try despite the pain to cover us with the blanket. Scenes are drifting by. Theodore's unpitying comments when Justin left me. Me - God Kinney. Left! I don't say a word about Melanie.   
  
How fast everyone came to terms with me searching for a new boytoy after Justin had been beaten almost to death and so becoming useless for me. Go on and don't look back. Jennifer, the night nurse and me are the only people who know that this is a lie. Some day I have to tell Justin all about it.   
  
When this Kip charged me, everyone thought I deserved it. I had fucked myself. Damn right I did. And who saved my ass? Only the one who believed in me, no matter what little-boy-fancy reasoned it. It wasn't important. The motif never was important. Important is the outcome.   
  
Even Michael was always highly irritated when I did something that didn't fit the picture he had of me. For him there was always just him and me for ever. The boys we were when we got drunk and ditched school. When I glued the Biology teacher to the toilet and at our certificate-ceremony, when I brought the stage to collapse.   
Very funny, Mikey.   
  
Alright, there was the money they paid me back as thanks for me saving Liberty Avenue from Stockwell. But that was only Justin's initiative. As I said, I don't want any thank. Just a little sympathy.  
  
"Justin?" I move my shoulder and he awakes.  
  
"You should go to Hollywood by all means."  
  
His eyes blink sleepily. Then he's bright awake.  
  
"I thought you wanted me to be here with you?"  
  
"Not at that price."  
  
"What price?"  
  
"To botch up your life."  
  
Now he's sitting upright in bed and wipes his face. "What botch up my life? There will be other offers to come."  
  
"Not many." I sigh and try to sit. The blanket glides down and his body is so close to me. How shall I stand this? Without him? "Sunshine, Hollywood is huge! You can fuck each star you see, not only Connor James."  
  
He looks as if he wants to hit me. I hold him when he tries to step out of the bed. "If you have one leg in Hollywood then you can build up your life on it. It doesn't have to be only the story boards. What about your painting, drawing? Maybe one day you move to Frisco and become a famous, racked artist." My smile fails its intention.  
  
"You're so stupid, Brian Kinney. First you ask me if I want to live with you, then you scare me away. What do you want actually?"  
  
Did I ever tell you that I love you, Justin Taylor?  
  
I bend over him as far as my sore shoulder allows it. "Now listen to me, Justin. You remember very well Ian's contract clause. You should vanish from his life. You didn't want to. Neither did Ian. But he had to accept it if he wanted to take the chance of his life. You didn't want him to make reproaches on you, right? He would have said: You ruined my future because you didn't want to stay away. Or couldn't."   
  
He blinks and I know he understands.  
  
"I said I want you here and I meant it. I understand though when you don't want to leave me." My raised eyebrow speaks of arrogance, but my smile is taking it back. "But I will do the hell and let you pass this chance. You forced me to eat your chicken soup, now I force you to take the pencil. And, if you want to come back... the room in my drawer stays empty."  
  
He drops his head and stares at the blanket. I lift his chin and plant a kiss on his lips. "I'll miss you. And if you don't send me a damn picture postcard each week from Sunset Boulevard, I'll kill you."   
  
A droopy smile appears on his face. He wraps his arms around my neck and I suck in his scent. He will return. I know it.   
  
"And thanks for the blow job."   
  
"Son of a bitch."  
  
We grin at each other. I guess, a bad timing has also its fortunes.  
  
END 


End file.
